My Italian Adventures

by de Burgh, Lucy; Hodge, Mary; Hastings, Max

  After about an hour’s run we reached the approach to Cassino. There were fields on either side of the road here, and the mountains rose abruptly beyond on the left. For several miles the scars of battle stood out – burnt and stunted trees, blackened with smoke and wrecked by blast, ruined tanks, the shells of houses, useless and twisted railway lines – it was all there, the grim aftermath, but far worse than we had ever seen before. There did not appear to be a living soul about, and there was total silence, except for the purr of the jeep as she sped on through the desolation. That famous line from La Belle Dame Sans Merci came back and imprinted itself vividly on my mind: ‘where no birds sing’. This valley of Cassino was indeed the place ‘where no birds sing’.

  Then we came to the rock, immortalised by the sacrifice of our men and the Poles. To our inexperienced eyes, it seemed forbidding enough, almost perpendicular, with little sign of the mass of fortifications built in and behind the monastery. One could see some ruined cloisters, and here and there a crumpled pill-box. The village was more horrifying – not a house was standing, and on each side of the road were high piles of dust and rubble. Here and there among these heaps of ground-up dwellings, small stalls, mere trestle tables, had been set up, and fruit, clothing, ironmongery and bread were for sale. It was a cold wintry day, and there was very little cheer in that comfortless place. There were shacks, where presumably the inhabitants, those left, took shelter, but on the edge of the town the foundations were already laid for what was to be the new Cassino. That magnificent resilience that had not yet appeared among the rest of the population was already apparent in Cassino, whose townspeople had suffered more than any.

  Six months later I was to pass through Cassino again, and by that time the foundations had borne fruit, and solid, well-built cottages were almost completed. Perhaps by now the new Cassino is complete, and the destruction of 1944 only a memory, testified to by the blackened tree-stumps of the vale ‘where no birds sing’. I hope the birds are singing there again.

  After stopping for a few moments to eat some rations by the roadside, we passed through Caserta once again, now more of a hive of activity than ever, with ceaseless streams of Allied traffic proceeding to and from it. We drove through Capua, which looked no more prosperous than it had done the previous July, and reached Posillipo, on the edge of the Bay of Naples, at about three o’clock. To reach Posillipo we took a different route from the one leading to the Salerno autostrada. We threaded our way through the narrow, crowded Via Roma with its overflowing pavements, and drove along the waterfront, along past the Aquarium, and then up the hill, cutting slightly in along the coast road. Houses were built on the cliffs on each side of the road, for Posillipo stands entirely on a slope, reaching right down to the water’s edge. The bay looked very different on this cold February day; there was a strong wind blowing and lashing the waves into furious breakers, which crashed on to the bastions of the Castel dell’Ovo and along the shingle of the waterfront. On the pavement fishermen were mending their nets, and small boats at anchor were tossing like mad creatures. The coastline was blurred and Capri only a vague outline in the distance. The leaves of the orange and lemon trees, which grew in every garden, shivered in the cold, and gusts of wind blew clouds of dust into the air, where they whirled and eddied feverishly. This was Naples in stormy weather – what a contrast to Naples in the sun! And yet it was magnificent, almost ferociously so, with Vesuvius glowering over everything like a malignant deity, whose wrath might have to be appeased at any minute.

  I had no idea where we were going, but Roberta was billeted here and working temporarily in this branch of HQ, so she knew the ropes and I did not worry, and left everything to her. Presently we turned into a narrow drive and went down, descending gently and passing various villas on the way. Then we went down more steeply, and rounded a hairpin bend, emerging in front of a large straggling building, formerly a hotel, but now mess, office and sleeping quarters. Like many Italian buildings, it had an extra storey on the side overlooking the sea, because of the steep cliff it was founded on. I was shown my room, a tiny whitewashed closet, with a tiled floor and the ever-present shuttered windows – ‘persiane’ the Italians call these French-style shutters. Nearby was the bathroom, also with a tiled floor, but the bath was full of water, a bad sign, as it generally meant that there was a water shortage. I soon discovered that the water was turned off for certain hours of the day, which necessitated great foresight and economy in its usage.

  We had afternoon tea in the small anteroom overlooking the sea. I was told that my appointment had been fixed for the next day at Caserta, and meanwhile there was nothing I could do but possess my soul in patience. I was, of course, distraught with anxiety, which rather spoilt my visit to Posillipo, or I would naturally have enjoyed it more and have observed more. Roberta was living out, billeted in an Italian flat, and so I spent the evening with her there. My only other distinct memory of Posillipo at that time is of the seas raging against the rocks on which the house stood. The dining room was below the anteroom, only one floor above sea level, and the room seemed to vibrate with the force of the water. We went out on the balcony after dinner and watched the waves and the spray shimmering in the beams of light thrown out from the open windows. Again the following afternoon, after lunch, we watched the swirling waters; they seemed to exercise a fascination so great that one just could not leave the scene.

  By this time, I had had my interview at AFHQ, and kind as the people were whom I saw, they could do nothing for me. My mother and sister were both at home, and therefore my case did not warrant a compassionate posting. Compassionate leave was not allowed at that time. Of course I understood that there must be many cases far worse than mine, and more deserving, but that did not make my own anxiety and disappointment any easier to bear. Unknown to me at that time relatives of mine in London were trying every possibility at the War Office to get me home, for it was thought that my father might lose his life, and that perhaps seeing me, whom he had not seen since I left England, might at least help him at such a crucial moment. But I had volunteered for overseas service, and at that juncture overseas I had to stay, for the war was still at its height, and every available space on ship and plane was needed for the transport of war materials and key personnel. And so the following day I was once more on the road for Rome, with a heavy heart but with the consciousness that all possible had been done in the circumstances. The weeks that followed were slow to pass and depressing, for although I received news that my father had survived and was making a slow recovery, letters came erratically and were always tardy bulletins. The winter days seemed sad and heavy, but I filled in some of the evenings by coaching the AT sergeant in French, holding gramophone recitals or attending dances. Otherwise there was not much else to do, but thanks to the very regular mobile cinema shows, one could at last spend two or three evenings a week in the crowded canteen, amid a hot, smoky, cheerful crowd, watching a very good selection of films, comics and newsreels. The projector made a continuous whirr and sometimes it went too quickly, or too slowly, or films were put in upside down – usually some small accident enlivened the evening.

  One bright spot was an acquaintance I struck up with a French naval officer, Captain Thiers, attached temporarily to us for liaison purposes. He seemed a very charming man and was apparently from Algeria. This gave us something in common to discuss, and I was highly flattered when one day he asked me if I would lunch with him on a given date. The day came, and I made myself as smart as possible, for we were going to the Plaza, the hotel in the Corso Umberto taken over by the Free French Forces in Italy. We had lunch in the great dining-room-cum-ballroom, with tables all round and a dance-floor. To my surprise, a large orchestra was playing and dancing was going on. We had a good lunch, cooked of course à la française, and drank Algerian wine, which was pleasant, but a little heady. Afterwards we danced and I became rather talkative with the unaccustomed wine at midday and the music and general atmosphere of enjoyment going o
n. Altogether it was a good party. I met Captain Thiers in the mess the following day, and we had a chat and I told him how much I had enjoyed my visit to the French hotel. In the course of conversation he asked me if I could possibly manage to procure for him two pairs of lisle stockings from the officers’ shop ‘pour ma femme, elle a si froid, la pauvre’, he explained. I said of course, that was easy, although I had never done such a thing before. But next time I went into Rome I bought the stockings. The gallant capitaine did not ask me out again as promised, and indeed it must have been an expensive party for him, as he had stinted nothing and given me a wonderful time. But the two pairs of ATS stockings must have been the dearest he had ever bought for anyone, and looking back on the affair, I wonder if his wife really needed such thick hose in Algiers with the approach of Spring. ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’. But I enjoyed my fling notwithstanding … and it had given me the unadulterated pleasure of seeing Tony glowering at me in the anteroom when I met Captain Thiers there on the famous day and we made our exit together.

  We had a visit from the ATS group commander at this time, and found her very charming and helpful. As usual every effort was made to make the ATS quarters look spick and span, and we regimentalised ourselves for the occasion, with very tidy hair, lisle stockings and a marked reduction in make-up. It was an especially cold day, and the air seemed charged with cold right from the snows of the Abbruzi Mountains to the west. I went to see Jacky after the inspection and looked at the snow-capped peaks from her window – there was no sun to brighten the scene that day. The Italian winter could indeed be bleak. No wonder tourist guides and brochures never mention it, but concentrate on the sunshine and warmth of the other three seasons. Jacky was most indignant. She was suffering badly from chilblains on her fingers, and had hoped for a little sympathy from the senior commander; instead of which the latter had taken one look at poor Jacky’s red swollen fingers and remarked, ‘My dear, how perfectly frightful your hands do look!’

  Eileen and Jean had already left us, and now my new friend, J/Cmdr Percy, was also to leave us, posted as admin officer to the Army School of Education, which had been set up at Perugia. It must have been cold at Perugia that winter, for it stands high on an escarpment; but it is a beautiful place and there was plenty of military activity at that time, so Priscilla Percy had no objection to a little extra cold. We were really getting inured to it by that time. And yet, even in January, Cicely and I had lunched out at the Pincio on a sunny day. What an amazing country!

  The School of Education was branching out at this time, and before long was running a most interesting selection of courses. As regards the ATS, these included most domestic subjects, particularly cooking, dressmaking and general housekeeping. The course lasted about a week and nearly all our girls attended it at some time or another. Quite apart from the instruction, it gave them a chance to see a different part of the country – and how beautiful Perugia is with its old cobbled streets imbued with history! By this time the girls were looking far healthier than when they arrived from Egypt. Most of them had filled out and they all had more colour and energy. The exhaustion from Cairo’s sapping climate had given way to freshness and robustness. Most of them were now perfectly happy with us – only one had gone home and that was for compassionate reasons. As regards boyfriends, most of them had several.

  We had girl telephonists by this time, and the telephone exchange was an excellent opportunity for admirers to get in touch with their operators. A phone had been fixed up outside the telephone exchange, where officers and sergeants could make private calls, a practice not encouraged. But many a time a certain dark-haired, copper-skinned sergeant was to be seen holding an intimate phone conversation with the object of his attachment, who was only two 2½ yards away from him inside the exchange. Entry into the exchange was, however, forbidden except by the duty officer or signals personnel on duty. Nowadays it is hard to imagine what courting couples did before the telephone was invented. We had one engagement – Sgt Entwhistle became betrothed to the ATS private who worked in the MT office, much to the detriment of all work in that place. They were married a few months later in St Peter’s, as both were Roman Catholics, and the colonel gave the bride away. I was genuinely sorry to miss this ceremony – but by the time it took place the war was over, and they were able to go on leave to Venice. When they got engaged, our troops were still bitterly contesting mountain strongholds, but now spring was coming, and light and hope were dawning – and the final push was about to begin.

  I had been promoted to junior commander in February 1945, which had helped to cheer me up during the cold and rather dreary winter. Meanwhile I was still very busy as messing officer, and had very little time for moping. The markets of Rome were becoming quite familiar to me, and the prices no longer caused me acute anxiety. I discovered another magnificent market place, on the Piazza Navona, where one could get olive oil, at about 350 lire for half a litre. This did not amount to much when divided among everyone in the mess. And so I did not now always go to Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where the array of black market motor tyres, NAAFI goods, and even items of uniform was growing increasingly impressive.

  The elder of the two cooks in the officers’ mess had been posted elsewhere, and one of the batmen took his place. He was a young man, Welsh, very dark, handsome and desperately keen. His name was David, and he had been trying to learn as much as possible from watching the other cooks at their work. His enthusiasm was unbounded and he very soon became a passable cook, and then an excellent one. We also took on an Austrian POW – something on the lines of the Italian ‘co-operators’, who worked in the Posillipo mess – and he was an expert at pastry. Sometime in March the officers decided that they wanted to engage an Italian cook. Personally, I thought it was an unnecessary extravagance, but as messing officer, I was there to please the majority, who were in favour, and Peter, the other English cook, could easily be moved to the Other Ranks’ cookhouse. And so I complied with as good a grace as possible, secretly dreading what the new chef might be like.

  By this time we were all getting quite accustomed to spaghetti and various other Italian dishes, and as there were quite a number of Italian speakers in the mess who had known Italy and its food before the war, opinion was all for experimenting with an Italian chef, especially as other units had them and circulated stories in praise of the delicious food they produced. I was afraid that they would not understand the rationing system, and prove far too extravagant – and this did in fact happen, at least at first. However, in the meantime, the mess secretary rang up the Civilian Labour Office in the RAAC and told him our requirements, which were in all one cook, one dishwasher and one waiter. Within a day or two, a small, painfully thin, half-bald, and pathetically shabby little man arrived, and we duly interviewed him and engaged him as cook, although to tell the truth he looked as if six months in a convalescent home would have done him more good. This was Renzo. A day later, the day Renzo was due to start work, another man arrived, not nearly so seedy looking or emaciated, and announced that he also had been sent to us as a cook. Captain Thompson and I looked at each other in amazement. We could not possibly have two cooks – and what to do now? The second cook, Marcello, then produced the most panegyrical references, including one from the American Fifth Army, with whom it appeared he had held his previous job. He had even been at the Grand Hotel before the war! Clearly he beat Renzo hollow, but how to make Renzo see it? In the end the whole matter was cleared up, as it turned out that Renzo had been sent to us as ‘washer-up’ and not as cook. So everyone was happy. Meanwhile, a youth of about eighteen was taken on as waiter – he had a roguish look in his eye and answered to the name of Guglielmo. All these three employees looked vastly better and healthier when they had worked with us for a month or so, although poor Renzo lagged far behind the other two. He was a curious character and never seemed to get on. In the end we dismissed him as superfluous. He tried, I imagine, to take most of his food home to his family, and perhaps he
was also surreptitiously taking stores out of the camp. In that case the penalty would be immediate dismissal. He insisted on presenting the mess with a large bag of hazelnuts when he arrived. I am afraid he must have been suffering very badly from malnutrition, and I hope he recovered. There was perhaps something of a Dickens pauper about him, and his poor tired brain could not cope with the hurly-burly of the mess kitchen and the loud-voiced, hearty soldiers.

  Marcello and Guglielmo soon settled down and became good friends with David and the batmen. Marcello was without doubt a paragon amongst cooks, even if he did use nearly a week’s supply of margarine and sugar at once soon after his arrival. He found the strict limitations and detailed accounting for every scrap somewhat bewildering, especially after the more liberal ways of the Americans – or more casual, one might say. Anyway we now had the famous pastasciutta (pronounced ‘paster shooter’) at least once a week, and I shall personally always be grateful to Marcello for showing me how to prepare it, and especially how to make the tomato sauce to accompany it. We even obtained a spaghetti machine for the mess, but for some reason it never worked well, and so we resumed the easier way of making ‘tagliatelle’ by hand – i.e., long, narrow strips of paste-like ribbon. How warm and satisfying Marcello’s Italian dishes were on a cold day, after one had sat shivering in an office for several hours on end! He also manufactured the most delicious sweets, but these were usually very elaborate and necessitated the inclusion of a not inconsiderable quantity of alcohol, so we reserved them for special occasions.